On the 4th, for a little rebellion because a cookout is boring, T and I went to Canada. We got lost and then eventually found our way, via the very sketchy Detroit map in my US/Canada atlas that showed a teeny bit of Windsor, to a waterfront park. There was book reading in the grass and a summerberry fizz in a coffee shop with a fish tank in the wall.
We made it through immigration in both directions even though I was somehow more nervous at a land border (taking my dad's car through) than at any airport, ever. Or at the land borders in East Africa. Or ever. It may also be a result of having taken immigration law last year. Sometimes it doesn't pay to know too much.
Oh, Canada.
I was feeling all tough, being in Detroit. I can do this, I was thinking. I was driving defensively, slowing down at night way before the lights so as not to get penned in between cars if there was a problem. I was prepared to have the car broken into or stolen on the street (my dad's car, you recall, so I could sacrifice it). I went out to the car this morning ready to see scratch marks on the door (I actually was pretty confident that the car could hold out against thieves. I trust it, but I was hoping for at least the chance to have my trust vindicated), or broken windows, or even no car.
But did I get broken into? No.
What did I get instead?
A parking ticket.
Welcome to %^&*-@(*$# Detroit, ya'll.
We made it through immigration in both directions even though I was somehow more nervous at a land border (taking my dad's car through) than at any airport, ever. Or at the land borders in East Africa. Or ever. It may also be a result of having taken immigration law last year. Sometimes it doesn't pay to know too much.
Oh, Canada.
I was feeling all tough, being in Detroit. I can do this, I was thinking. I was driving defensively, slowing down at night way before the lights so as not to get penned in between cars if there was a problem. I was prepared to have the car broken into or stolen on the street (my dad's car, you recall, so I could sacrifice it). I went out to the car this morning ready to see scratch marks on the door (I actually was pretty confident that the car could hold out against thieves. I trust it, but I was hoping for at least the chance to have my trust vindicated), or broken windows, or even no car.
But did I get broken into? No.
What did I get instead?
A parking ticket.
Welcome to %^&*-@(*$# Detroit, ya'll.
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